


All Rooms: Cable | A/C | Free Coffee

by Pseudothyrum



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Q, But only if you squint, M/M, Songfic, Unrequited Love, a little floriography, death-seeker Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not supposed to think your death wish is cool, but then I see you knocking back tequilas by the pool."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Rooms: Cable | A/C | Free Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song of the same name by The Extra Glenns.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gWdUsVmxtI
> 
> Dedicated to my tireless beta, who didn't believe me when I said, while listening to this song, that I could write a story about Bond with it.

Bond drifts into Q Branch like a ghost, almost a full day after the completion of his mission, and having been out of contact for almost as long. A cigarette is dangling from the corner of his mouth in flagrant disregard for regulations. Q can’t find it in himself to chastise, and there are no minions around to make a show of disapproval for this early in the morning anyways. Bond swaggers closer, lips pulled up in a smirk, eyes dead. There is a hint of lipstick on his collar, wine dark, a bruise on the field of white that mirrors the marks on his skin. Up close, Q can’t help but notice that he smells, incongruously, of honey.

“Good morning, 007,” he says coolly. 

“Q,” Bond’s voice is warm, amused, and Q feels as though he is being mocked, though he doesn’t know why. He feels a flush run through his body, and he isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment, or anger, or attraction. He imagines a lot of people feel this confusing mix of emotions around Bond. It’s especially frustrating for Q, who doesn’t like boys, or girls, or anything, really. But, for some reason, his brain has decided to like Bond. 

There’s something about the man that's weirdly fascinating. It is, Q reflects, somewhat like watching a spectacular train crash in extremely slow motion. At some point the horror of the violence and death fades away and one begins to focus on the sparkle of smashed glass, the raw power of destruction. It is destroying itself, but it is doing so in a beautiful way. If prolonged, beautiful self-destruction isn't a metaphor for Bond's approach to life, Q doesn't know what is. He knows that it's completely insane to find that sort of thing attractive, but he can’t help but be enthralled by the grim, vicious determination Bond takes to every mission.

There isn’t anything cool about having a death wish, Q reminds himself as he pretends not to watch Bond swagger out of the room. 

***

Bond is in America on a mission, and Q is in his ear. They've been tracking a target for about twenty hours, the sun is just coming up in California when Bond is captured by an ally of the target. The man is a rank amateur, who doesn't even bother to check Bond for an earpiece. Of course, this means Q can hear everything that's going on halfway around the world. It's going to take hours to get someone to Bond, given how they technically aren't supposed to have an agent in America at all. 

Bond is laughing at the pain, blood on his teeth. Q is clutching the desk, knuckles white, muscles taut, heart pounding. He is giving too much away and he doesn't care. Bond’s lack of self-preservation is staggering; when he’s given the chance to breathe taunts roll off his tongue and leave imprints on his skin. 

They get him back soon enough, with no major damage, a few new scars, a few new nightmares. He smirks and his eyes remain dead. Q frowns and pretends not to care.

***

The thunder and lightning have largely passed, but the warm rain continues. The electricity of the storm hangs in the air, a reminder of the stifling heat of the day, only partially broken by the rain. 

Q is sitting on the roof, smoking. He doesn’t hear the man approach, but feels his presence behind him. He turns to see Bond loitering in the doorway, protected from the worst of the downpour. His eyes are guarded, not haunted so much as weary, the sort of bone-weariness that doesn’t come from days, but builds up over years. He has seen everything that the world has to offer him, and he is unimpressed. Worse, it has worn at him, his eyes grown shutters to protect from the dangers of the world. Wordlessly, Q extends the pack to Bond. Bond’s eyes, a sharp, electric blue so unlike the soft, grey sky, soften, meet his briefly, turn away at the sudden movement of a crow alighting on the ledge above them. They watch the crow settle into a break in the stonework, safe from the rain, hidden from the world for now. 

They stand together in silence and smoke, breathing in the sweetish smell of warm, wet concrete.   


End file.
